


Placated

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:20:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27904357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Garak leaves around 4.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 19
Kudos: 58





	Placated

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The blanket slithering across Julian’s chest must be deliberate, because the man in Julian’s bed never makes a sound without meaning to. If Elim Garak was going to sneak out after dark like some common cheating boyfriend, Julian would never know about it. But he hears rustling sheets and feels the bed dip, even gets a chaste peck on his cheek to gently stir him back to consciousness. It’s almost pitch black in his room, but there’s just enough of an artificial glow from the nearby terminal to watch Garak slide to the edge of the mattress. He bends down over it, likely to fetch some of his discarded clothes—pieces that he claimed to painstakingly sew himself, though he hardly complained when Julian fumbled them off and flung them halfway across the room. Julian’s own off-duty outfit is mingled with the same mess, but it’s warm enough in his quarters that he doesn’t miss them. 

It was warmer with Garak lying next to him, pressed up tight against his back. He fell asleep with Garak’s arm around his waist and Garak’s breath on his shoulder, the two of them glued together by sweat and other drying liquids. It’s clammy to wake up to, but Julian isn’t quite ready to have a shower and welcome the morning. 

While Garak shuffles into his Terran-seaweed-green pants, Julian drawls through a yawn, “Any particular reason you’re slipping out in the middle of the night?”

“I think you mean the early morning,” Garak smoothly corrects, though in space, it’s neither. A quick glance at the wall shows that alpha shift doesn’t start for some time—enough for them to curl back up in bed and enjoy the short respite. Yesterday was the first real day off Julian’s had in a month, and he worked himself just as hard as usual, albeit in far more fun positions. With his broad back to Julian, Garak adds, “Alas, some of us have rather labour-intensive jobs to get back to.”

Julian can’t help a shallow snort. “Do your customers usually demand new dresses before breakfast?”

It’s a pity for Garak to pull on a sweater, covering all that glorious grey-purple skin, littered in the darker marks of Julian’s teeth and fingers. But it’s fixed when Garak turns back, because his face is just as handsome. He leans down over Julian, still reeking of alien sweat and spices, and brushes a kiss over Julian’s cheek. He seems to take great pleasure in nuzzling the slight stubble there—nothing major, only a few day’s growth, because Julian had back-to-back shifts and then a ridiculously eventful morning, but it’s enough of a contrast to his usual primness, a large one to Garak’s smooth face. Nipping along Julian’s jaw, Garak all but purrs, “My dear doctor, you wouldn’t believe how _demanding_ my best customers can be.”

Julian doesn’t snort again, because he’s busy grinning. Garak kisses the end of his smile, then straightens back up. Garak doesn’t have the chance to go any further. The smile falls away for Julian to note, “Wait... that’s _my_ sweater...”

“Oh?” Garak glances down, feigning surprise at the beige knit fabric wrapped tight around his middle. He even has the gal to say, “I hadn’t noticed.” It’s not sarcastic, just coy. Julian doesn’t bother pointing out that Garak is supposedly a clothier, because Garak is also a man of contradictions. 

Julian is a man of much tolerance and few needs when it comes to lovers, but this is an area where he has to put his foot down. “Very funny. Take it off.”

Garak’s thick brow rises, so expressive. “My, another round already? As much as I’d love to oblige, I’m not sure you’ll make it to your shift on time if we start now...” 

Julian should’ve known to phrase it better. “Not that, just... wear your own clothes out. I hardly have any off-duty pieces.”

There’s a sizeable pause where Garak’s hand slowly draws closer, until it’s rising along Julian’s pillow and back through Julian’s hair—his eyes automatically fall closed as those talented digits rake over him. The slight scratch of Garak’s blunt fingernails against his scalp is enough to make him shiver. It’s shameful how quickly Garak can _get to him_ , but as Garak loves to tease: he’s young and excitable. And Garak is suspiciously good at undoing him. 

Garak quietly promises, “And to think I so love seeing you in my clothes... a pity we don’t share that interest. But you can have this one back, if you must, when you come to my place tonight.”

It takes a great effort for Julian to resist that cloying charm. It used to be much easier, before he let Garak inside, and he realized just how well their bodies fit together. He opens his eyes again and peers up at his spy, insisting, “Now, Elim. If I wait until then, you’ll have already stretched out the shoulders with your ridges.”

Garak chuckles softly. Julian can already see where the woven neckline is straining to accommodate the chiseled lines dipping down from Garak’s jaw. Surely the damage will be irreparable in another several hours, even in the hands of a tailor. But Garak’s just as relentless, and he looms closer to murmur, “But you love my ridges, darling.” And then he’s parting his lips, and Julian’s head lolls aside of its own accord, because he knows what’s coming. Garak bites down into his neck, and Julian moans like a feline humanoid in heat. The bite isn’t rough or even sharp, but the suction is exquisite, and Garak’s tongue does such wicked things to Julian’s sensitive skin. It makes it hard for Julian to argue anything, especially the merits of Garak’s alien figure, because all he can think about is the hard ridges of Garak’s cock buried deep inside him. 

This time when Garak retreats, Julian doesn’t push it. He lies where he is, half under the covers, staring up at the best lover he’s ever had, torn between exhaustion, annoyance, and arousal. Garak suggests with a smile, “Feel free to wear my jacket to work.” 

Julian rolls his eyes. Garak pushes off the bed and weaves out of his view, through the self opening doors. They whisk shut again when Julian’s alone, free to sleep or jerk off. 

The over-achieving Starfleet officer in him nags at the back of his mind, wanting him to get up and shower and head out to the Infirmary while he’s already awake. But the doctor in him prescribes R and R. The lovesick boyfriend ultimately propels him forward—he rolls into the dip in the thin bed where Garak just was. He inhales the faded scent of Cardassian cologne still clinging to the pillow, and then he closes his eyes and thinks of what clothes he’ll wear tonight when he inevitably strips Garak out of his.


End file.
